Blessed are the Peacemakers
by Veritara
Summary: **Spoilers for RDR2 Chapter 3** Micah's plan might've gotten Arthur Morgan kidnapped by the O'Driscolls, but it's Arthur's plan what frees him and sets him back to camp. One-shot about the escape because that's the best damned mission in the game.


_Septic_ , Colm said yesterday — the day before. Arthur didn't need to be told, he could've smelt it himself. Sour, rancid, a touch of rotting meat. The wound in his shoulder burned something fierce and, despite the chill in the lovely celler the O'Driscolls provided for him, a fever wrung sweat from every pore he had.

The O'Driscoll beat him again, the strong fist against his feeble bruised body. A flash of sharpened steel. All he could do was hang there and grit his teeth through it. He coughed. The muscles in his stomach spasmed, rocketing pain down his spine.

"Nighty night, Morgan," the O'Driscoll said. He picked his hat back up and tipped it with a sneer, before trampling upstairs and slamming the doors shut.

Arthur panted, smiling to himself. Exhaustion threatened to overtake him. Sweat beaded up his face and burned his eyes.

Dutch would be here soon, he knew he would. He couldn't leave him behind like this. And then it would all be lost. The girls, Jack, Hosea. And then it wouldn't matter if the O'Driscolls killed him now or the law gave them all matching rope collars.

Two escapes had failed. A third would almost certainly mean a bullet. Strictly speaking, they didn't need a live bait to catch Dutch. They would bound to get tired of beating him soon.

Arthur's smile widened and he cast his eyes to the table at the side. A dim candle. A battered shotgun shell, rolling on the floor. And the fool's metal rasp. That bastard had come everyday, sharpening his knife until it could skin a fly and then waving it around like it was something special. And now he had forgotten the rasp. Finally.

Arthur braced himself against the pain in his shoulder and swung. Every muscle and bone in his body screamed its protest. He grit his teeth and swung again, back and forth. His head swam and broken or cracked bones made themselves known. But they didn't matter now. They could matter another day.

If there was another day. If there weren't, then there was no point in them mattering now.

Arthur grappled desperately and the file brushed his fingers. One more swing. He wrapped his fingers around the icy metal rasp. Panting, he relaxed a moment, clutching the discarded and dull tool to his chest. He groaned and doubled over, reaching with the joint to jiggle his shackles. His stomach spasmed again. He fumbled the file.

 _Click_. The shackles opened and dropped him flat on his back, knocking what little breath he had out of him.

Groaning at the aches in his back, Arthur pulled himself up on the chair. For the first time in several days — a week? — the world faced the right way around. Lightheaded, he moved as if in a dream. His fingers found the shell on the ground and he pulled the candle nearer. He ran the sharp point of the file through the flame.

He had seen many wounds dealt with in camp before and always tried to slink away before Miss Grimshaw or Hosea called for him to help out. He didn't mind shooting people what needed shooting, but having to pin down the others while they screamed or thrashed, that was no fun at all.

But he knew what to do. Many years ago, on a hunting trip with Hosea, Arthur had run afoul of a badger. His leg still carried the thick scar and he remembered how he cursed out Hosea as they improvised in the wilds, far too far to get back to camp in any good time.

He could only hope he could keep his mouth shut this time.

Arthur clenched his jaw tight and drove the hot tang of the file into the center of the wound. A lightning bolt of pain shocked him to the present moment, cutting clear through the fog. He sawed it until it cooled. Tears sprung to his eyes and sweat slicked his palm.

He removed it with a gasp and a wet wrenching sound. Only then did he look down at the ragged hole in his shoulder. The flesh was blackened, charred from the gunshot like raw meat, the inside still bloody and oozing a foul-smelling yellowish pus. The file had dug around some, stirred things around, but hadn't cauterized it.

"God damn it," he groaned.

He bit the cap off the shotgun shell and sprinkled gunpowder on the wound. He had thought Hosea had lost his damned mind when they tried this last. But it should work.

Even after all he had been through, Arthur felt his heart speed up as he took the candle in hand and lowered it to the scattered gunpowder. He clenched a fist and forced his breathing to calm. It erupted in a shower of sparks and white hot pain. His fingers dug runs in his palm. The candle fell from his hands, rolling on the floor as he gasped.

But he was okay.

No matter where these O'Driscolls were stationed, he should be able to survive a ride back to camp. It had been three days, maybe, of travel time with a full caravan. He figured he could make the journey back in one or two days hard riding, if he could get a fresh horse.

He had to.

The cellar door opened above him. Arthur leapt from the chair and backed against the wall, heart racing.

Irish voices.

"But… But I don't want to go to Mexico!"

"Shut your mouth."

"I want to go home — _home_. Aye, hang on, I'll be back in a minute."

Heavy footsteps on the stairs, the flicker of a lantern.

Arthur flexed his fingers, testing the strength in his arms. The O'Driscoll came into view a moment later, raising the lantern high as he spotted the empty shackles.

"What the hell…" he murmured.

Arthur struck, wrapping his arms around the man's neck and pulling him back behind cover. The lantern shattered when it hit the ground. He struggled against the grip, arms flailing. His throat gulped around Arthur's arms, breath wheezing. Through great effort, Arthur jerked the head to the side and snapped the neck.

He rolled the O'Driscoll to the side and picked through his body, his mind dizzy. Weapons. He needed a weapon of some kind. A nice hunting knife, a pistol with a few rounds, and a handful of balanced throwing knives. The pistol would be too loud.

Arthur took the throwing knives in one hand, the hunting knife in the other, and looked towards the open trapdoor. Stars shone down, the sky inky black. A pair of passing patrols filled his sight, making his heart stop, but gone just as quickly.

"What's he doing down there, you think?"

"Torturing a man is one thing. It's another thing putting him through stories of the homeland."

A storm of chuckles followed. Three, maybe four of them.

"He better hurry up. I don't wanna be here when the law comes for that side of beef."

Arthur peeked around the corner again, staying low. It looked clear. He bit back a groan of complaint from his hips and limped along, up the stairs and into the wilds.

Middle of the woods, middle of the night. A deep breath of cold air assaulted his lungs. Thick trunked pine trees, the craggly Grizzlies not too far off, a bitter chill and rushing river. They had to be out by Strawberry somewhere.

Arthur flattened himself by a set of crates, edging around the side. A campfire and rickety shed. Through the missing planks, he thought he could see the glint of gunmetal. More O'Driscolls. One leaned against the shed, another warming himself by the fire, a third pisssed by a tree some ways away. He wouldn't hear anything.

Arthur took aim with a throwing knife and snapped back his wrist. The one by the shed crumpled in a heap, the knife hilted in his throat. He croaked a sickly wet noise as he died.

"Aiden, something's up?" the one by the fire asked. "Aiden, if—"

Arthur bolted from behind the crates and tackled the O'Driscoll to the ground. Before he could get another word off, he drew the hunting knife across his throat and covered his mouth. Brilliant scarlet spilled like a curtain over his clothes as he stared, gasping at Arthur.

Limping to the shed, Arthur pawed through the stockpile. Guns and bullets, mainly. A little food, money, and a bit of explosives. He spotted his own leather and brass gunbelt and strapped it on, slinging a rifle over his healthy shoulder. He reloaded the revolver, checking it over, but it appeared to still be in good condition. Unlike the rest of him.

"Hey, hey, all of youse! Get over here! The prisoner's escaping!"

Bullets tore their way through the shed.

Arthur took the rifle in hand and ducked down. He was too slow. That damn O'Driscoll at the tree had spotted his dead friends and raised the alarm.

A stampede of horses, guards returning at the alarm.

Arthur snatched a few sticks from a bundle of dynamite and hurried out of the shed. He lit the dynamite, the fuses flickering down, and threw one at the nearest O'Driscoll, the others in the general direction of the riders. The explosions threw dirt and chips of wood into the sky. Horses whined, screaming in panic. O'Driscolls cursed, but theirs weren't the only horses rearing at the noise.

There had to be a stable nearby.

Arthur limped as fast as he could, firing a few random shots back at the pursuers. The recoil snapped into his bad shoulder and he swore. So long as they thought he had all his wits, weapons, and their own explosives on him, maybe they would be more cautious.

Bullets filled the air like a blizzard. Arthur ducked around the corner, loading his revolver. He aimed back at the nearest O'Driscoll. His arm wavered and he felt the shots fire off into the woods. He hurried around the side of the house and found the tethering posts. A handful of horses screamed and bucked against their reins. All saddled and ready. And even…

"Shire," Arthur croaked. "Am I glad to see you, boy."

Hosea's black monster stood stoic and silent, a mean look in his eye. Shire had never liked him.

Abandoning the O'Driscolls, Arthur ran to Shire and swung himself into the saddle.

"Oy, he found the horses!"

Shouts and bullets followed him as Arthur urged Shire down the dirt road. He had no idea where it went, but it had to be better than here. Shire charged on, unruffled by the gunshots that chased him. He snapped the reins and goaded Shire on. Bullets came on every side. Arthur ducked flat against Shire as he spotted another O'Driscoll. Of course they had a guard stationed on the road. And now he rode straight for him, pistol extended in greeting.

Not trusting himself to shoot straight in return, Arthur turned the horse off the road and down a steep lush hill. Shire whinnied, dodging through thin trees. His hooves dug into the dirt to slow his descent. Branches whipped past his face and scratched old bruises. But the gunshots slowed. Apparently the O'Driscolls' horses had had enough of this nonsense and refused to follow through the steep woods.

Arthur patted Shire's neck. "There's a good boy."

Shire shook his head at that, refusing the compliment.

"Oh, you are. Don't try to pretend any different."

Shire's hooves skidded down the hill as it steepened and ended at a different bend in the same road. Arthur looked behind them and saw the fires of the O'Driscoll camp in the distance. It was only a matter of time before riders were on them.

The moonlight shone on the path ahead, turning the thick river silver. The Dakota River maybe? A strong bridge of crossed iron bars passed over it. It had to be. Not too far from Horseshoe Overlook, then Valentine, then Rhodes. A day or two. Shire could take him there. Hopefully, he could catch Dutch and the others before they got too far in their rescue mission.

"Come on, boy," he whispered. "Take me home. Let's get back to Hosea."

At the sound of Hosea's name, Shire snorted and shook his head against the reins. Arthur dug his heels in and Shire broke into a gallop, tearing down the road. The sharp jolt echoed in his bones, but somehow, he managed to drift in the saddle.

Hours turned into minutes and minutes to hours. All that existed was the rhythmic bounce of Shire's frenzied pace, his snorts and shakes pulling the reins from Arthur's hands, and the heady fog of exhaustion and fever threatening to consume him. The early light of dawn found Arthur in the canyons, the steppe outside Valentine. Moments later, he slipped back out of his mind and opened his eyes to a new world. Hot summer air, buzzing insects, and still water. A forest. Narrow, young trees and a calm lake.

"Who goes there?"

A young voice, strong and unafraid. A click of a rifle.

"I _said_ , who goes there?"

Arthur opened his parched and cracked mouth, but no sound came out.

"Oh God, Arthur. Guys! Guys, it's Arthur!"

The reins left his hands and something heavy hit him. He cracked open his eyes and stared at the clear blue sky, flat on his back. Shire stood over him and other faces swam into sight, calling his name. Abigail, Mary-Beth… Dutch.

Dutch.

They were all still here. They hadn't rode out to rescue him. Relief, then anger threaded through him. Arthur found a strength but when he opened his mouth, only a groan left it.

"I told you it was a set-up, Dutch," he managed.

An arm folded under him, propping him up. Arthur hissed at the pressure.

"Oh, my boy, my dear boy, what happened?" said Dutch. He furrowed his brow as he spotted the black wound in his shoulder. The worry in his face bit into Arthur's anger, but only just. "Where were you?"

"They got me." Arthur drew a rattling breath. "But I got away."

A hand stroked his matted hair, warm and comforting. "That you did, my boy. Let's get you up. Miss Grimshaw!" called Dutch. "I need some help here. Reverend!"

More arms, supporting him, urging him to sit up properly, regardless how much it hurt. Why couldn't they just leave him here a while?

Arthur realised he was an idiot. He hadn't kept watch to ensure he wasn't followed. He might've just led all the damned O'Driscolls back to camp and they could just bring the law back here with them.

"He was gonna set the law on us," growled Arthur, but he couldn't summon anymore words to warn them.

"Of course he was," said Dutch. "I'm so sorry, son."

"It's a bit late for apologies," said Arthur with a bitter laugh.

More hands and arms. Pearson appeared at his side and slung Arthur's bad arm over his shoulder, awakening fresh pain. "Let's get Morgan into bed, eh?" he said.

Just as he was about to protest, Dutch put an arm around his waist and the two men pulled him to his feet. Arthur groaned and felt a blackness encroach on his vision as they half walked, half dragged him to his tent.

"You're safe now, Arthur," implored Dutch. "You're safe here."

"That's pretty, Dutch," he rasped. "Real pretty."

He should've known. Of course they wouldn't ride on in to rescue him. It was obviously a trap. And the last time they had ridden gallantly in to rescue someone from the O'Driscolls, it had been Annabelle. That hadn't gone so well.

Still, Arthur felt he was entitled to be mad about it right now. He had hung and suffered in a cellar for days without end, abandoned and left for dead while everyone stayed safe at home. It hadn't even been his idea, this stupid parlay.

They set him into his cot, laying him flat with one more lingering pat of comfort. Unable to give voice to his anger, Arthur could only glare up at Dutch. He sighed, wiping the mud and blood from his pants.

"Miss Grimshaw," said Dutch, "would you mind sitting with him a while?"

Miss Grimshaw nodded. "Of course." She pulled a stool to Arthur's bedside. "You'll be alright, Mr Morgan. You're home." She patted his hand.

Home. He was home.

Arthur lay his head back and knew no more.


End file.
